Grown men do not behave like this
by scrub456
Summary: The floor is lava. (Just an epic best friends bit of fun)


***Author's Note***

Another Towel Day prompt!

"Grown men, he told himself, in flat contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, do not behave like this." ― Douglas Adams (from "So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish")

* * *

"You two _sure_ you're fine? There's nothing the matter?" Lestrade scrubbed his hand through his hair and massaged the back of his neck.

"Never better. Why do you ask?" John smiled, but not quite in that easy way that meant everything really was fine.

Lestrade studied John in earnest. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he _had_ bloody well pulled the rank of Detective Inspector after all.

John was standing - no that wasn't quite right - John was _balanced_ on the narrow fireplace hearth, left foot in front of his right with his right knee slightly bent, as that leg was clearly supporting most of his weight. His right elbow and forearm were propped on the mantle and his hands were clasped together. It was an attempt to look casual, but the white knuckle grip he had on the edge of the mantle was not lost on Lestrade.

It was possible the man had been about to build a fire. A damp chill had settled on London days ago, and John was never much one for the cold. But why didn't he just get on with it? Because John was also never much one to let anyone (with the singular exception of Sherlock) interrupt him when he set his mind to something.

"You both seem a bit... _off,_ is all. More so than usual." Lestrade turned his attention to Sherlock.

The consulting detective had a way about him. He often seemed formidable, a force to be reckoned with. Larger than life. Typically, Lestrade knew, it had to do with the imperious attitude, the way his very posture exuded condescension, and his flair for the dramatic with that damned billowing coat. Today, though, it was something else entirely.

Sherlock was standing, barefoot, square in the middle of the table that served as both desk and dining space, paying no mind to the papers and file folders scattered across the surface. Feet shoulder width apart, fists resting on his hips and put upon scowl on his face, he was positively _looming_ over the entire room.

"Nonsense. You're the one seeking the assistance of a consultant for a single homicide. It's obviously not even a two. Your trained lab monkey Anderson could solve this one. Call us after the next body... No, after the next _two_ bodies show up. _Then_ you'll have something worth my time." Sherlock dropped into a crouch and seemed to be judging the distance between himself and one of the cushions from the couch that lay seemingly haphazardly on the floor.

"Sherlock, I..."

"Why are you still here? I told you, I'm not interested. Now go away, we're busy."

"Busy?" Huffing an incredulous sigh, Lestrade turned back to John, who had not moved a centimeter. "Is he serious?"

"'Fraid so. Maybe next time?" Once again John's smile seemed a bit tremulous, and there was a definite strain to his voice.

"What could possibly be more important than a murder?"

The flatmates shared a quick glance; Sherlock stood back to full height and crossed his arms over his chest. "Another case."

"C'mon. Not really." Lestrade snorted.

"It's a... piracy thing..." Biting the inside of his cheek, John appeared to be studying something on the mantle in order to avoid making eye contact with Lestrade.

"Piracy? Really? Since when does Sherlock Holmes concern himself with piracy?" Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets, took a step further into the room, cocked an eyebrow and stared at Sherlock in challenge.

"Since the victim was found... burned to death." Sherlock stared right back.

"Burned to death?"

"Charred. To a crisp. Unidentifiable."

If DI Greg Lestrade was ever certain of anything he'd observed in his line of work, it was these two things...

One: John Watson giggled. His face was turned away, buried in his elbow, but the sound was distinct.

Two: Sherlock Holmes pursed his lips in apparent frustration at said giggle, but his eyes betrayed a rather uncharacteristic boyish sense mirth.

"You know what? Fine." Lestrade held up both hands and feigned defeat. He recognized, if a bit belated, that he'd interrupted... something. Important or not, whatever was going on, it was enough for Sherlock to turn down casework, and for John to be on the verge of straining something vital in order to hold his position.

"When you get whatever _this_ is sorted, you call me, yeah?" Lestrade shook his head and backed out of the room with a chuckle.

It wasn't until they heard the door to the street close that John risked a perilous side step to one of the cushions on the floor. He bent over, braced his hands on his knees, and took a few deep breaths. "Damn. I thought he'd never leave. I've not had to use some of those muscles for a few years."

With a smirk, Sherlock jumped down to the wooden chair located halfway between the table and the couch. "Piracy? Really, John?"

John laughed and stepped up onto the seat of Sherlock's chair. "I certainly wasn't going to tell him what we're really doing... Which you almost gave away."

"I did nothing of the sort." Sherlock launched himself to the couch. "You're the one who giggled."

" _Charred?_ Seriously?" John leapt across to his own armchair.

"Well, the floor _is_ lava, is it not? Charred will be your fate once I've bested you." A quick step up and Sherlock was perched on the coffee table. "Now, where were we?"

John considered whether the small table next to his chair could take his full weight or not, and decided to go for it. "You were trying to guess my chosen career path at age eight. If you don't get it in three, I get to propose a new twist to the game. You've wasted two guesses on the painfully mundane. One left."

With one long stride Sherlock stepped out onto one of the cushions. It slid under his weight and he stumbled to regain his balance, quickly stepping to another cushion. He huffed a breath of relief. "Doctor and soldier are not mundane, too obvious perhaps, but those are what you chose as an adult. But eight year-old you..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied John intently.

"You'll never guess." Quirking a lopsided grin, John dropped down to an ottoman.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he moved to stand on a crate. "You're a romantic. Drawn to adventure. You didn't choose doctor or soldier, which tells me yours was not a common choice. Not fireman or police officer. You've a deep sense of justice... And you're not alarmed by the truly absurd."

"You're not even deducing anything, you're just stating a jumble of fact and conjecture." Recalling Sherlock's near fall, John gingerly stepped onto the Union Jack cushion. "Guess already."

"You know I _never_ guess. I'm simply using acquired knowledge to eliminate the most unlikely options." Sherlock tottered dangerously on a stack of John's medical textbooks. "However, since you're being a child about it, I'll spare you my thought process. When you were eight years old you wanted to be a knight. As in shiny armour, jousting, damsels in distress... Everything you are now, only with a sense of whimsy and the fanciful." He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his head with finality.

"Wrong." Climbing up onto one of the wooden chairs, John crossed his arms to mimic Sherlock's stance and grinned. " _So_ wrong."

With a growl Sherlock flung himself into the uncomfortable old chair beside the couch that no one ever seemed to use. "I'm not. It's not possible. Factoring in everything I know, you _had_ to want to be a knight. I did the math."

John laughed in earnest. "Oh god. Math told you I wanted to be a knight when I was eight?" He heaved himself up onto the table and sat for a moment, swinging his legs over the edge. "Well, you must have missed a decimal point or something, because I wanted to be a knight when I was five."

"Damn. It's always something." Sherlock stepped up onto the arm of the couch, and using the wall for balance, walked along the back of the couch to the other arm. "So what was it then?"

Very carefully John scooted off the table and balanced on a stack of periodicals with his back to Sherlock. "A detective." He glanced over his shoulder and laughed once more as Sherlock almost lost his footing.

"You..." Sherlock jumped down to the crumpled shock blanket. "...A detective? You wanted to be a detective? How..."

"Hardy Boys." Turning the waste paper bin over (scattering the contents in the process), John stepped onto it and frowned as it bowed under his weight.

"Am I meant to know to whom you are referring?" Sherlock pulled himself up to stand on just his tiptoes on the window sill.

"The Hardy Boys books? Brothers who solved mysteries. You never read them?" John climbed over the back of Sherlock's chair and stood with one foot on each armrest. "I wanted to be just like them."

Sherlock twisted and jumped onto the wooden chair. "This information is..."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a constant source of surprise. And you got the question wrong." Considering his options, John hopped down to a couch cushion. "And now I get to make a new rule." He grinned up at Sherlock, who huffed in response. "If you touch the skull, you activate the infinite improbability drive."

"Infinite. Improbability. Drive." Sherlock's mouth quirked up. He stepped onto the coffee table. "Hitchhiker's Guide?"

" _That_ you've read?" Shaking his head with a laugh, John jumped up onto his armchair. "Of course you have. So this is how it works. If you touch the skull, you get to move to any surface in the sitting room, without burning up in the lava. _But,_ the other player decides how many turns you have to stay in that one place."

Sherlock hummed his consent and nodded. "Very interesting, John. Excellent choice..." An electronic ping sounded drawing their attention to John's laptop. "Email alert... what did we decide for that one?"

"Whoever makes it to the opposite side of the room first gets two free moves." John eyed both the side table and the nearest wooden chair.

"Right." Sherlock snapped the _t_ for emphasis. With a devious grin he motioned to John. "Shall we?"

"Into the fray." With a grin, John stepped up once more onto the side table and used it as a springboard to jump to the wooden chair in the middle of the room. With his long stride, Sherlock stepped from the coffee table to a couch cushion and made a leap for the same wooden chair.

Despite the obvious advantage Sherlock had in height, John landed on the chair first... And promptly slipped off, no thanks to the socks he'd refused to remove.

"Ow." Laying flat on his back, John gritted his teeth and looked up at Sherlock peering down on him from the chair, true concern etched on his face.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?" Doing a mental assessment of all his parts, John determined his already aching shoulder had taken the worst of it, but nothing seemed broken or dislocated.

"John... You're in the lava."

"It would appear so."

"I win?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You win. Well done, you."

With a gleeful laugh Sherlock jumped down from the chair and then stood over John. "You've injured your shoulder."

"It's just sore. Nothing a hot shower won't cure." John groaned.

Sherlock held out his hand to help John up, and realized a moment too late what was happening. John clasped onto Sherlock's forearm with a firm grip, holding him in place, and swung his legs to the side, knocking Sherlock's feet from under him. John let go and Sherlock landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

"John?" Sherlock coughed.

"Hmmm?"

"You're... you are a terrible sport."

"Yeah, well... When I ask you to keep the body parts in the crisper drawer, you should learn to do it."


End file.
